


If I Were You

by larryisalwayswonderful



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, idek if there are graphic depictions of violence????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:09:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larryisalwayswonderful/pseuds/larryisalwayswonderful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis' life is a pathetic mess, basically. He's the water in the paint brush holder after you've painted something beautiful; something bright and spontaneous. He's the lip of the waterfall that's just fallen; fallen into the plunge pool as it watches the waterfall retreat upstream, watches it go on without it. He's Pluto. He's tea stains on the book. He's the - he's Louis Tomlinson and he's the boy with the shattered dreams. He's Louis Tomlinson and he's the boy who fell for the bright city lights of London. He's just Louis. Broken and scared and <i>lonely</i>.</p><p>Alternatively: Louis is homeless and broken and Harry's there to save him, naturally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Were You

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is i just really wanted to write a homeless!louis fic. this is unedited and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> also: if anybody ever actually reads this, just know that updates will be realllllllllly slow.
> 
> thanks to [jenna](http://super-wolves.tumblr.com) for the title ([it's a song written by a man when he was homeless](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaMaKCIFPPU)).

Louis was running. His heartbeat was picking up slightly as his feet slapped against the ground in a pitiful rhythm and his Toms were getting even more scruffy with every passing second. 

He had thought that moving out and away from his parents would be liberating, would get him places in life - with his music. He thought that he'd get to London, and somebody would see him and sign him up straight away. He wasn't confident in himself, but he thought that was just how it went. It was naive of him, really. He thought he'd have the life of a popstar and he wouldn't have to worry about getting a job with his little-to-none qualifications. He'd be jumping from 5-star-hotel to another 5-star-hotel, taking breaks to live on a tour bus every once in a while, whilst he smoked pot with his drummer named Steve. Everybody needed a Steve in their life. Turns out, there are no Steves in London. There are no Steves in Doncaster. Louis doesn't think he's ever met a Steve in his life.

He didn't think he'd end up jumping from doorway to doorway, picking on bits of left overs from the local cafe - he's learned that if he goes at 2pm and leaves by 3pm, he'll be able to take an hours kip in the back whilst munching on a croissant or two and a cup of tea, thanks to that one barista, Liam. He's a nice lad and Louis can't thank him enough - thank him for giving him the only meal of his day, basically. Thank him for giving him a bath on the inside with his cups of tea that Liam stares at in disgust ("You need some sugar in that, mate. That's like drinking dogs' piss." (Sometimes Louis thinks that maybe he should drink dog piss, it'll quench his thirst and it'll make everybody stare at him even more than they already do. He's had enough disgusted looks in his life, and not the fond ones Liam throws at him.)) It's something so simple, something Louis would take for granted when he was back living with parents, because who can't afford a cup of tea? 

His life is a pathetic mess, basically. He's the water in the paint brush holder after you've painted something beautiful; something bright and spontaneous. He's the lip of the waterfall that's just fallen; fallen into the plunge pool as it watches the waterfall retreat upstream, watches it go on without it. He's Pluto. He's tea stains on the book. He's the - he's Louis Tomlinson and he's the boy with the shattered dreams. He's Louis Tomlinson and he's the boy who fell for the bright city lights of London. He's just Louis. Broken and scared and _lonely_.

But here's the thing: he got a job pulling pints in a grotty, worn down pub. He had pulled out some of the less dirty items of clothing in his duffle bag and pulled them on in the McDonalds changing rooms because it was one of the only places that didn't chuck him out as soon as they saw his face. He was going to get paid for the first time, for his first real job, with money that didn't come from his mother when he was living under her roof (Louis'd quite like a roof of his own). 

He turned up on time, smiles and the lot. He had forgotten what smiling was, almost. Had to remember how to smile whilst he stared at his feet, trying to not get his worn-out shoes splashed with water. Louis thinks he's heard that it takes less muscles to smile than to frown. Maybe that's the reason his face is thin, so, so thin, and pale. Sickly. Ghastly. 

He'd pulled his fair share of pints, men in their 40's staring at him with hungry eyes, and Louis felt like he was in a butchers - he was the fresh, new meat hung up. He was the beef that the butcher had just, well. Butchered. He felt naked, something which he thought he wouldn't, because people were staring at him like they _wanted_ him and that's his dream, isn't it? For people to not only want his music, but to want him, to want every part of him, and. It's all part of being a popstar, isn't it? Being put on show and having teenage girls stare at you, lust in their eyes as they seized up their inspiration, their hero, their dream man. Except it's not his dream.

He's 21 and he's serving pints in a grubby pub, and it's 40 year olds who see him as nothing but an object. Something they can let out their frustration on. A robot. The comfort that they've 'still got it', when he looks back at them with dull eyes that he can't seem to change, that can't seem to light up, and they see their lust reflected in his eyes. Because he's just a mirror. He's staring at himself, and. Who is he? He's the reflection watching him, the real him, someone who he had almost forgot was like. He's telling his mind stop, stop, stop. The reflection is not what he is, not what he's telling his mind to do. He's trapped. Watching himself go by, un-phased, calm. The mirror is oh-so-clear, oh-so-tempting, and it's there. It's easy to walk through, for his reflection to join his dreams, but there's a barrier. It's stopping him from moving. His feet are stuck to the ground and he's in sinking sand. 

And he's running. He's running away from this new job, this reminder of what he'll never have. He's running away from his life, but he can't. He can't run away from his life no matter how hard he tries. He's dreamed of the silver blade etching its way in to his pale skin, deeper, deeper, deeper. The blood trickling down his arm as he stares at the red. The colour of danger. All he sees is the colour of roses, the smell wafting through his nose in relief, the happiness overtaking his body as he plants more and more roses. And he's in a field of roses and then everything is black. Black like the skateboards from his childhood, when everything was simple. Peaceful.

He's contemplated killing himself, sure. He's tried getting the knife, even. Except the little money he took with him had run out, and the knife was out of his reach. The moral of his life, really. Everything's so close and the one thing that could make everything better - could make all the pain go away, could make him feel _human_ again. That was too far away. His life is one obstacle after another, and, sure. He's sure that if he was whole, if he was himself again (who was he?) he'd enjoy the challenge. But he's tired. He's nothing but a body with a life full of happiness turned into sadness, into regret, into a mess. His thoughts aren't coherent anymore and his mind is running faster than his feet are. His head is all muddled, and Louis thinks he could use that sentence to describe his life.

He needs to smell the roses, to go back to the park where he and Stan had their first cigarette and he showed off on his new skateboard.


End file.
